Adevism
by The Readers Muse
Summary: The self reflection that'd come after the fact had been ugly.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the movie "The Rezort" or "Fear the Walking Dead." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** This is a crossover between the zombie movie "The Rezort" and "Fear the Walking Dead." – The idea behind this crossover is that Archer is a different version of Thomas Abigail. Think different universes/crossover-ish stuff. Archer is what Thomas Abigail could/would have been if he hadn't been born with the knack for business. And because Archer wasn't the consummate business man, he never meant Strand and his life never went in that direction. – This this fiction I infer that Archer is bisexual.

 **Disclaimer:** post movie, alludes/mentions/references "Fear the Walking Dead," alternative universes, zombies, gore, blood, canon appropriate violence, adult language, drama, angst, romance, sexual content.

 **Adevism**

 _ **Chapter One**_

It was a messed-up kind of heartbreak when you could go through hell with someone you loved and come out of it forced to realize that you really didn't know them at all.

She wanted to say it'd eaten away at her at first. But the awful truth was that Lewis had been easy to forget. Betrayal had a way of doing that, she supposed. That and being entrusted with making sure nothing like this ever happened again. It was a legacy she'd inherited, but she took to it like a duck to water all the same. Rediscovering a part of herself she thought had died the day she'd watched her father turn and the world she'd grown up in reduced to ash and flame.

Coming to terms with the fact that Lewis had probably only stayed with her because she'd been weaker took longer. Finally understanding it'd been that disparity that'd made him feel strong – that'd made him feel powerful and in control. Up until the island anyway.

The self reflection that'd come after the fact had been ugly.

She mourned them all in her own way, but she never could bring herself to mourn Archer. They told her over and over that she'd been the only survivor. The only one they'd pulled from the water. But deep down she'd never really believed it. There were just some people that didn't die easily. And from the moment she'd caught sight of him angling slow and confident towards the line cars on the island, she knew that was _exactly_ what she was looking at.

If the reanimation virus had taught her anything, it was the difference between predators and prey. The difference between survivors and people that just hadn't died yet. The difference between who she used to be and who she was now.

So maybe that was why she wasn't surprised when he showed up three weeks after the news broadcast from the coast. Blood spattered and face like a thunderclap. It'd been weeks since the massacre at the refugee camp and the spread of the infection into the surrounding cities. A bit more than a week since it'd hopped continents - following her home. Three days since Marshal law had gone into effect in her city. But mostly, it'd been forty-eight hours since she'd barricaded the doors and started sleeping with a loaded gun under her pillow. _Waiting._

"Get in, we'll wait it out," she whispered by way of greeting. Tugging him bodily off the porch steps and inside before the action turned into an awkward half-embrace that had him stuck somewhere between staying stiff-backed and returning it.

She inhaled reflexively as her hands wrapped around his neck. Realizing she'd never had the opportunity to do it before - save for the metallic tang of sweat, curdling blood and singed skin from the processing pens. Automatically breathing in as they'd plastered themselves against the door that'd been their last line of defense.

And as always, Archer didn't disappoint.

He smelled like expelled shot, old denim and bourbon.

She smiled into the dark.

 _Perfect._

He shook his head into the wisps of her hair as he pulled away first. All jutting chin and sober as she took in a smear of blood that went from his cheek to the filthy collar of his shirt.

"It's worse than they're saying," he gritted. Closing the door behind him with a slam that somehow managed to be soft. Perfectly timed to be masked by the sound of a police car turning onto the street. Patrolling for infected or just curfew breakers as the headlights glinted through the gaps in the blinds. Eyes darting to the gun in her hand and two bags already packed and waiting by the door with an expression that could have been pride if it hadn't been so brief. "Its here. We have less than a day before the party really starts. By then its your best guess what the government might be willing to do to contain it."  
 _  
_ _We're just an island._

The words rebounded.

She'd heard them somewhere.

A horror movie probably.

What do you do when you're trapped and alone and no one is coming to save you?

 _What do you do with a diseased little island?_

"Did you come all this way for me?" she asked suddenly. Biting her lip as his head came up. Staring back at her like-

There was a beat.

Then another.

Then-

"I have a place," he said hoarsely. Ducking his head but not before she taught the glint of his eyes in the dark. Wondering if he knew how much they gave away as she swallowed the lump in her throat. "By the coast. It's fully stocked. Safe. There's a safe room- a bunker."

Somewhere outside a siren started wailing.

It reminded her of the recording safely filed away on her phone.

The one where her father told her with his eyes that he was about to die.

She nodded. Letting the action smooth the tiny hairs that were trying their best to prickle across the back of her neck. Shouldering her bag as he grabbed the other, thumping the metal buckle into the door frame behind him. Accidentally cutting into the drywall as drizzling, pearl-grey flakes started hushing across the carpet.

"Then let's go."

* * *

 _"Go- you go first. I'll hold them back."_

 _"No!"_

 _"Melanie, go...I'll be right behind you, promise. Go! Go! Go! Go!"_

* * *

"What happened you?" she asked, watching the fifth military officer in under two hours stuff the curl of pound notes Archer handed them into their pocket. Seeing the reflection through the rear-view mirror as they waved them through the checkpoint with tension burning in her chest. Deliberately not asking how or why, but deciding she deserved an answer to at least one of her questions as he grimaced into the smoky air.

His fingers were calloused and thick against the steering wheel as the lights from the check point gradually faded from view. Making them the only point of light in miles as the towns around them suffered through the mandatory blackout. Conserve power. Prevent accidents. But more importantly, don't draw attention from the infected. They'd lost entire cities that way. Mowed down and crushed by massive herds all converging at once. She still remembered the smell.

"I made it out, just like you," he answered, mostly without inflection. Calloused tips gliding across the expensive leather in a way she could actually hear as she kept her hand on the cool metal of her Glock. Still not sure about the thigh holster he'd tossed her the moment they made it to the sleek luxury sedan parked out front. Hood already dented and stained tacky-red. Proof enough that getting to her hadn't been easy.

She eyed him archly, shivering as he turned the air conditioner on blast. Knowing when she was being bullshitted.

"I didn't want to die," he told her blandly. Like that'd been what she'd _really_ been asking. Unmoved by her expression but firm enough that when he shifted gears and revved the engine she knew he meant it. "I just wasn't afraid to die. There's a difference, Melanie. Besides, it was a judgement call. Never been much good at free-climbing anyway."

There was a ghost of a smirk there, haunting the very backdrop of his expression. Like he was laughing at his own expense as the orange glow of the street lights punched the hollows below his eyes a couple millimeters deeper with every pass.

"After I emptied my clip I just pushed through them. Turns out there wasn't as many as there looked. I was able to get ahead of the main crush and just ran for it. I found my way outside and well- you know the rest."

She shook her head.  
 _  
Not even close._

"Why didn't the rescue boats pick you up?" she questioned, attention caught when they roared past a car crash still hazing smoke. Front hood crumpled against an electrical pole as a trio of shambling shapes lit up like bloody dust in the glow of the headlights.

Archer didn't even slow down.

She said nothing.

"I popped out on the west side of the island, nearly brained myself on the rocks and got swept up in a rip-current. Almost fucking died anyway. The choppers were focused on the docking end. Not where I was. So it was easy to slip past before they tightened their grid patterns."

The question of why tried it's best to push past the seam of her lips.

"Lucky for me I hire good people. I own an aviation company - among other things. One of my pilots was monitoring the channels and heard about the strike, he was able to get me out before the coast guard expanded their search," he remarked, shaking his head ruefully despite his eyes never once leaving the road.

Her father had been a journalist. He'd been able to smell lies and inconsistencies a mile off. That was why he'd been out in the streets when containment failed. He'd known that the government was lying. Lying about something big. But he'd always known the stories not to touch. Sometimes the past was better left there. Sometimes, when it was harmless enough, there was no reason to drag it back up. He'd told her that the mark of a good journalist was someone that knew the difference.

"It's for the best," Archer continued, twirling the wheel gradually to avoid some debris on she didn't see until the last minute. Heart jumping into her throat as her nails bit into the leather exterior of the arm rest. "I had no intention of getting tangled up in all that cock-measuring government bureaucracy. Besides, Sadie's stuff? It had to get out there. Another voice, especially mine, probably would have taken away from it."

There was another story there.

Lurking the backdrop of the words he'd let go of so casually.

Still, she let it rest.

She had a feeling Archer was the kind of person you picked your battles with.

"It was strange though," he started, only to shake his head and look like he regretted saying anything. Punching the radio as they listened to the same repeating emergency broadcast before he growled under his breath and switched it off again. "Hell, maybe I did hit my head."

The tone was unfamiliar enough for her to look up, wishing she could see his face. Suddenly wanting to know what uncertainty looked like when it was caught between stubble and frown-lines.

"What was it?"

He shook his head again.

"Nothing, probably. It's just- when I hit the water -I don't know if it was the force, how I landed or even if I hit something going down, but I remember getting caught underneath the water in some sort of current. Felt like I was stuck in a washing machine. It didn't matter how much I kicked, it had me. And when I was down there, drowning, I saw- I saw something in the water. Flashes. Things that should have been memories only none of them were familiar."

Her hand curved carefully around the seat-rest.

"What did you see?"

His expression was rueful again, only this time with a curling upper lip that threatened a snarl just as much as it did a self-depreciating laugh.

"Another life?"

There was a small question mark tacked onto the end. Like part of him didn't want to question what he'd seen out of respect for it - despite knowing how impossible it sounded.

A muscle in her cheek ticked.

She'd admit that some days it felt like anything was possible.

 _But this?_

"Tell me," she said simply, knowing it was the right thing to say even before the line of his shoulders sagged. Like he'd expected her to laugh or worse. Clearly not knowing that there was very little Archer could say that she wasn't ready to believe.

"Believe me, I know how it sounds. But it wasn't what they say- you know? That you relive your life before you die or some shit. It was like something got mixed up and I was looking at someone else's memories, _someone else's entire life_. Like somehow the two of us were dying at the same damned time and our wires got crossed. Because thing was, it was me, but it wasn't me. Some things were the same, but most of it? It was like looking at a completely different person. Makes no damn sense, I know. But-"

Behind them a set of headlights appeared in the distance. Cutting Archer off like an unwanted opinion.

 _Alternative universes.  
_  
That was where her mind went automatically.

It was people's choices that made things different.

It was what set timelines apart, so bad television theorized.

Decisions and actions were all we really were in the end, after all.

"God damn it," he cursed, eying the headlights as they seemed to get closer rather than dropping behind. Matching their speed and gaining as he pressed down on the accelerator.

"Were they doing any better than us?" she said, meaning it to be playful only to have the expression fall flat when the lines on his forehead only deepened.

"Worse," he bit off, still watching the headlights behind them. "The infection was just starting, only it was world-wide and in the United states – maybe even started there. I guess no one thought of a Brimstone Protocol. They fire-bombed the major cities when containment failed but it wasn't enough. It wasn't a war. _It was the end._ Everyone for themselves. You could see it. People scattering where they could, making plans, trying to stay alive."

The headlights behind them flickered out. But the tension in Archer's muscles only tightened.

"This other you, what was he like?" she asked quietly. Not saying anything when he switched off the headlights. Taking his foot off the gas slowly until they were coasting, struggling to gain momentum. Careful not to light-up the brake lights as she realized what he was planning.

"Soft," he grunted. Turning the wheel sharply as another car wreck glinted just ahead. Kicking up a spray of gravel as he maneuvered them around the back of the car. Easing closer and closer until the crumpled metal partially hid them. Letting the concrete barrier bring them to a sudden halt before he cut the engine and waited. "He didn't make it."

Predators and prey.

Maybe that version of him never had the chance to learn.

 _Maybe.  
_  
They watched the road in silence. Waiting like she remembered on the island - tense and fearful every time his hand went up. Straining to hear. Straining to see. Straining to know why he looked so tense when all she could see was trees and wild grass. He'd been on another wave length from the start. Even Lewis had commented on it.

 _"Look at him, he's living."  
_  
At the time it'd made her wonder what'd he been doing before.

If he hadn't been living until he'd looked down the sight of his rifle, what did that mean?

And worse, what did that make her?

What had she been doing since the end of the war?

 _Living?_

 _Or just surviving?_

"There was someone with him in the end. They- _he-_ ended it," Archer finished quietly. Catching her eyes in the rear-view mirror.

She thought about Nevans and Jack. She thought about Lewis and the shocked finality that'd lived and died in his eyes as he looked from her to the gun she'd pressed into his hand.

"He was with someone he loved," she said carefully. Pausing for a long moment before voicing the rest. "He was lucky."

Her chest seized tight when the car that'd been trailing them rolled up beside the tangle of cars. Nothing but a barely visible gleam, given away only by momentum and the screen of the GPS lit-up on the dash.

 _Go past._

 _Just go past._

Please.

She didn't close her eyes. Instead she turned her head and watched the easy way he reached for his rifle. Gradual and slow. Confident even as the headlights blinded them as the car eased to a stop. Inspecting the wreck as two men in military camo argued animatedly in the front – all cut-throat gestures and muffled words.

"Then what happened?" she whispered, voice so calm it didn't even sound like hers. Sucking in a deep, shuddering breath as the passenger door cracked open. Flinching as one of them leaned out of the cab, shining a flashlight that fell on them like a spot-light.

 _Oh god._

"Easy," he murmured, hand ghosting over the curve of her stomach. Keeping her firmly in her seat as the man with the flashlight made another pass. "Don't move. They won't see us if we don't move."

But instead of making her shy, the solid weight of him against her belly made her bold. _Open._ It made something in her want to _give_ rather than shy away. Feeling a surge of heat arrow down to her core. Making her suddenly paranoid that he could feel it through her shirt. Wondering what the hell was wrong with her before she realized he was speaking again.

"Then- then I just- popped up. My fingers found the surface and I broke water," he rasped. The corner of his mouth twitching as the man with the flashlight cursed and turned on his heel. Gesturing to the driver to start the engine. "Just when I figured I wasn't going to make it, suddenly there was air. I tossed up water for what felt like hours, and then there was a helicopter beating above me. Blinding me with salt water and wind and my man was lowering a basket. It wasn't until they got me into the bird that they told me the military had pulled one person out of the water. And I knew- _I knew it was you_."

The car drove away, belching exhaust.

But they stayed that way.

Chained with flesh to oblivion.

He exhaled slowly, not looking at her, but like he knew it. Fingers flexing just so against the soft of her stomach. Thumb brushing over the barest curve of a rib-bone before stilling again. Like he knew this wasn't something they could shrug off or walk away from without things being different.

Change was a requirement of life.

But sometimes it was as terrifying as it was essential.

"I knew you were alive too," she murmured. Meaning it in a way that didn't quite register until it was out in the open. Suddenly needing him to believe it as she looked up at him through the fan of her lashes.

His smile was all in his eyes this time as he inclined his head and started the car. Easing them around the wreck and back onto the road. Headlights off as his hand slowly pulled away. Leaving her colder than before and feeling like she'd lost something.

The person she'd been before The Rezort would have left it there.

Too cautious and afraid to take the chance.

But that wasn't her anymore.

Instead, she reached forward and rested her hand on his thigh. Smiling small into the dark as the muscles underneath her hand jumped. Daring to look as his expression changed. Morphing into something between surprise and contentment. Melding tension and a desperate sort of want – the type that screamed about the honesty of skin against skin.

Even then it wasn't enough.

It seemed only natural when her hand gravitated to the curl of his palm. Nudging entry until she could feel the rasp of his callouses across the small of her hand. Resting it there until something shifted – _broke_ – giving way as he sighed through his nose and wove their fingers together. Squeezing her hand, gentle and quiet as she remembered how to breathe again.

It was enough, for now.

* * *

 **A/N:** There will be two more chapters, stay tuned. Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think.

 **Reference:**

\- Adevism: the denial of gods from mythology and legend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the movie "The Rezort" or "Fear the Walking Dead." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** This is a crossover between the zombie movie "The Rezort" and "Fear the Walking Dead." – The idea behind this crossover is that Archer is a different version of Thomas Abigail. Think different universes/crossover-ish stuff. Archer is what Thomas Abigail could/would have been if he hadn't been born with the knack for business. And because Archer wasn't the consummate business man, he never meant Strand and his life never went in that direction. – This this fiction I infer that Archer is bisexual.

 **Disclaimer:** post movie, alludes/mentions/references "Fear the Walking Dead," alternative universes, zombies, gore, blood, canon appropriate violence, adult language, drama, angst, romance, sexual content.

 **Adevism**

 _ **Chapter Two**_

She was dozing against the window when they eased to a stop in front of an imposing set of iron gates. She squinted at the bronze lettering. Only half paying attention as Archer punched a code into the entry screen.

 _Abigail Estates._

"Whose Abigail?" she wondered, yawning. Not realizing she'd said it out loud until he snorted. Startling her fully awake as she caught a glimpse of a long sprawling driveway, modern lines and wall to floor windows.

"Who do you think?" he shot back, smirking as the screen beeped and the gates creaked open. Swinging in slowly as Archer drummed his thumb against the steering wheel and inched forward. They waited until the gates were closed before starting off again. Just to be safe. Making sure nothing followed them in. It was paranoia, sure. But the comfortable kind. The kind rooted in experience rather than mindless hysteria.

She looked around, trying to see in the half-dark as dawn started staining the far off horizon. Catching sight of sprawling lawns and rows and rows of apples trees. Smiling as she internalized the fact that she'd always assumed Archer was his last name, not his first.

 _Archer Abigail.  
_  
Huh.

It was an interesting combination.

But all that was forgotten the moment she actually saw it.

"You live here?" she breathed. Staring in awe as she fumbled with the door handle and stepped out onto the gravel drive. Stumbling a little as she failed to stretch after being cooped up in the car for so long. Too busy staring as the smell of the sea made her breathe deep. "It's gorgeous."

And it was.

The house itself was massive. A perfect melding of the old and the new, with it's metallic lines and large windows. But clinging to yesteryear the wooden beams and the occasional line of brick. Reminding her of the old country houses and main streets of just about every town in the country.

There was a brief jingle of keys as she grabbed her bags and followed him. Waiting as he opened the door and quickly punched in a code to turn off the alarm. Trying her best to peer into the dark until the hall lights came on automatically – half blinding her.

 _Holy shit._

 _When he said he owned an aviation company she had no idea that he was a-_

"I made my money the old-fashioned way," he explained. Dropping his backpack by the bench in the hall before leading the way into the rest of the house. "Mainly by inheriting it. Thing was, I didn't- _I don't_ have the head for business. Not the technical stuff anyway. Hell, I dropped out of university before my third semester and travelled around the world for almost a year before my parents found out. Nearly disowned me. But when my father and mother died I still inherited everything. I spent a few years avoiding it, figuring that business could take care of itself. But eventually I had to face facts. I came home and started trying. It took me a while to get straight. I had a housekeeper at the time, Celia. She practically raised me, looking back on it. And she gave me a tongue-lashing I won't ever forget. Reminding me that business wasn't just for making money, it was for helping others do the same. My businesses gave people jobs, income, opportunities. Apparently it was never really about me or the money at all. At least according to her."

She trailed him into the living room, breathing in the scent of the sea. Crossing her arms over her chest as she approached the floor to wall windows. Taking in the rocky points of the cliff-edge that tapered into roiling dark-blue waves. Pretending not to see the fond smile that crept across his face as he talked about her.

"Still, I didn't like it. Like I said, I didn't have the stones for it. But that same house keeper? Well, she had a son who did. Luis. I practically grew up with him and when he expressed an interest in lightening the load, well- I sent him to university to get qualified. When he came back he eventually took over all my business holdings and investments. I got to handle what I pleased and when, and he got to do what he loved with a generous salary and an even more generous expense account. It was mutually beneficial and in a lot of ways it saved the both of us. I was going mad and he wanted to prove himself but had none of the capital or connections to there," he finished. Surprising her with what was perhaps the longest string of words she'd heard him speak in one go. Joining her by the window as the strap of his rifle dragged across the expensive tile.

Realizing with a slow, but growing clarity that underneath the words - underneath the unaffected mask and rough façade - all Archer was really doing was screaming to the world how lonely he was. How it was possible to somehow have everything and nothing at the same time.

The house was gorgeous, of course.

But it was empty.

Swallowing sound and light with it's blended corners and dark furnishings.

He'd made it his.

That much was obvious.

But he was still alone.

No wonder he was always running.

"Where is he now?" she asked, clearing her throat. "Luis, I mean."

His reflection reduced itself into a split-second grimace.

"He died in the war," he answered. Pressing his fist against the glass as they watched the sunrise stain the horizon with orange-red streaks. Biting down on the inane urge to say that it seemed appropriate. "Poor bastard was in London, trying to cement a real estate deal, when the containment measures in Camden failed. I told him to forget it and just come home but he didn't listen. He'd been working on the project for almost two years, it was practically an obsession."

"I'm sorry."

He shook his head.

"It was a long time ago."

She didn't ask about Celia.

She already knew the answer.

* * *

She had a glass of brandy warming between her fingers when the TV in the corner running repeats suddenly cut out. At first the news station just went off the air, switching to the emergency channel. Then the power cut out completely, fizzling out with an audible electric crack. Leaving them in the dark for a long, handful of seconds before the backup generator kicked in. Flickering the lights as she blinked owlishly.

They'd been prepared for it. The reinforced shutters had already been locked down. Shielding them from the outside but also insuring the lights couldn't be seen from the outside. Still, it didn't do much to stop her pounding heart. Feeling like she had at the Rezort when that first walker had stumbled out of the dark and into the fire-light. Like she wasn't moving. Like she was stuck. Like-

He was already looking at her when she finally raised her head.

"Now what?"

"We wait," he told her simply, rifle balanced easily in his lap. Looking for all the world like he'd been made for exactly this as he finished his glass of bourbon with a twist of his lips. Glass clicking against the coffee table with a tinny echo that made her want to wince.

"And hope for the best?"

She had a feeling his confidence could start catching if she let it. And so she did. Slowly schooling her breathing until it matched his. Borrowing some of that quiet, rageful strength he seemed to have in spades as a spit of gunfire carried from somewhere close outside.

"Yeah. And hope for the best," he agreed, nodding. Tone not quite matching the words in a way that made her smile anyway. Thanking him silently for trying. For trying for _her._

It seemed to be a trend these days.

* * *

The first time the Chromosyndrome virus tried its best to end the world, her anger at her father leaving to chase the story had been a bitter thing. Going between hating him and watching the news obsessively, just in case she might see him. She remembered watching the level of wine disappear from the bottle in the kitchen as her aunt wept quietly into a box of tissues. Watching her jump at every siren, every gunshot and loud noise while she watched the news without even so much as flinching. Not even when the news crew got overwhelmed at the barricades and disappeared under a growling, screaming mob of hungry dead.

The end of the world hadn't been a reality for her.

Not yet anyway.

Not until three days later when she woke up to a video message blinking on her phone.

Not until everything changed.

The second time around she found herself talking long into the night. Lounging deep in the couch cushions as Archer watched her with sphinx-eyes from the sofa opposite. Sprawled out- soft and almost loose as the feathers of his hair stuck up against the creased brown leather. The sight of it making her grin into her glass – giddy and girlishly stupid - every time she realized she was staring.

She found herself talking about life. About the virus. About what came next. About what she _wanted_ to come next. About the best-case scenario. The worst-case scenario and then the scenario that was far more likely. Meaning a little bit of both. They talked about the law suit and how GDE, the Rezort's parent company, tried to buy her off. Laughing together as the hours ticked by and they were still there, still breathing. Watching the security feed as the glow of a growing fire hazed in the direction of the nearest city. Wondering out loud if there was going to be anyone left to put it out.

* * *

"Your employees-" she asked sleepily, hours later. Still mostly drunk as she whispered herself awake the same moment he leaned over her with a blanket. Suddenly thinking about heavy things like loyalty and the familial sort of love that drives someone to take as big a risk as that pilot had. Searching for Archer along the rocky coastline. Realizing a bit too late that she hadn't finished the sentence as he smothered a chuckle and spread the blanket across her anyway.

"I had emergency bunkers installed on the properties of all my businesses. If they can get there, they and their families will be safe."

She thought about the ads on the television after the war. Government rebates of up to eight hundred pounds for households that installed personal safety bunkers. With tag lines like 'stay strong, bunker on" or "Infection proof: in case of the unthinkable." But mostly she thought about the people who'd been turned away the first time when the public shelters reached capacity. About how they'd been caught out in the open when-

"Most people wouldn't do that," she pointed out, slightly smug. Like she proving a point that had roots all the way back to the island when she'd smiled at him and told him he didn't have to come back. He could have left them and found his own way. But he didn't.

"I'm not most people," he answered softly. Smile genuine again as he reached up and tucked the blanket under her chin. "But you haven't seen anything yet. If we're still here in the morning, I'll make breakfast. I make a _mean_ piece of toast."

She was still grinning as her eyes fluttered closed and she tracked him back to the opposite couch. Feeling him watching her as he pulled his gun into his lap, settling in to wait. Taking sip of coffee from a mug so strong she could smell the caffeine burning the inside of her nostrils.

It was the first time since she'd lost her dad that she slept through the night.

* * *

The police scanner gave them some clues as to what was going on. Getting a pock-marked glimpse of how bad it was as a long line of cars wound its way, bumper to bumper on the road above them. They were people, just like them. Trying to get away. Refugees in their own country. Fleeing the towns and cities as they fell to the dead. It meant there was no one left to hold them back. To enforce lock downs and curfew. Evidence enough that it was just as bad as last time. Maybe worse.

The civilian channels were better.

Telling them what cities were lost.

Which ones were still fighting.

She didn't react when her city was listed as lost.

Burned away by Brimstone and now drowning in red.

But Archer gripped her shoulders anyway, letting her lean back into him.

Home was an open concept for her now.

And she realized she was surprisingly okay with figuring out what that meant.

* * *

 **A/N:** There will be one more chapter, stay tuned. Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the movie "The Rezort" or "Fear the Walking Dead." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** This is a crossover between the zombie movie "The Rezort" and "Fear the Walking Dead." – The idea behind this crossover is that Archer is a different version of Thomas Abigail. Think different universes/crossover-ish stuff. Archer is what Thomas Abigail could/would have been if he hadn't been born with the knack for business. And because Archer wasn't the consummate business man, he never meant Strand and his life never went in that direction. – This this fiction I infer that Archer is bisexual.

 **Disclaimer:** post movie, alludes/mentions/references "Fear the Walking Dead," alternative universes, zombies, gore, blood, canon appropriate violence, adult language, drama, angst, romance, sexual content.

 **Adevism**

 _ **Chapter Three**_

She was sorting through her belongings in her room when the sound of him yelling for her echoed through the house.

She burst onto the deck just off the kitchen the same moment he tossed her a silencer for her Glock. Heart in her throat as a small group of dead snarled up at them. Reaching ineffectually towards the second floor as bloody hands speared into the sky.

They were freshly turned.

Fast. Aggressive. Jerky.

 _Dangerous._

"There much have been a breach in the fence by the road," he told her, voice clipped and professional as he aimed down the sight of his rifle. Thumbing the bottom of the metal shutter so it opened completely. Giving them room to maneuver. "We need to deal with these and then go find it. There are no more than seven, tops. Shouldn't be a problem, but use the silencer- we don't want to attract attention. Dead or otherwise."

She nodded, understanding.

Sometimes it wasn't the dead you had to worry about.

 _Sometimes it was people._

The truth was, Archer had never made her worry about the balance.

Not even on the island when he'd started walking away.

He had that one quality about him.

The one that knew the difference between an acceptable risk and suicide.

Between who could be saved and who couldn't.

Lewis' voice was in the back of her head as she aimed. Like even the memory of him was desperate to be helpful. Desperate to be thought of. Desperate to be remembered.

 _Breath in._

Relax.

Pull the trigger.

Again.

She shook it away.

Instead, she looked at Archer.

She wasn't surprised that when he nodded at her, everything else slotted into place.

* * *

"Sadie wasn't wrong," she said quietly, hours later. Looking down at the tangled mess of limbs, teeth, blood and dark-stained clothes they'd piled on the outside of the fence before patching up the breach as best they could. Keeping the crashed car where it was - blocking the worst of the hole - before covering the rest with plywood. Disguising the rest with some green and black netting that almost blended in with the shrubs and fencing. Enough that someone passing by in a car might not see it. "At some point we stopped viewing them as people. I know we had too. But, well, she wasn't wrong, was she?"

He looked up, squinting through the stinging smoke that'd settled into the valley over the past few days. Trying to wipe the blood from his hands but only succeeding in smearing it deeper into the creases.

"I went there, to the Rezort, because I thought there was something wrong with me. There had to be. Everyone else seemed to be able to deal with it and move one. But not me. Everyone knew what to do when it came to them. But when I got there and we were on that rock, before you took your first shot- _she looked at me._ She looked at me as I looked at her and I didn't feel hate. I felt responsible."

She looked down at the tangle of bodies. One was elderly. One was her age. One could have been Jack's twin. One was wearing a backpack. The crashed car had a baby carrier without a baby in it. The woman at the bottom of the pile wore a wedding ring that flashed brilliant orange through the blood-drenched stone.

"I made some inquiries," Archer answered finally, turning away slowly as he led the way down the embankment towards the house. "Sadie? She had a blog, she talked a lot about how the Rezort was desecration. She lost her brother in the war. She likened them to a living graveyard that should be respected but dealt with. Reminding everyone they were all people once. They had loved ones, people that cared, people who thought they were long buried and at peace. She believed that closing down the Rezort humanely was the only option. Then that group found her and sunk its claws in. They used her to advance their nutbag agenda. Right or wrong, the best intentions don't make the same consequences."

She caught up with him. Chest tight as she breathed through the ash and smoke.

"I saw people die in the war because they couldn't do what had to be done," he continued harshly, stride widening like he could put distance between him and his own thoughts. "I saw parents get ripped into when their children turned. It happened all the time. People couldn't handle the way the world was changing. But their inaction only cost more lives. Good intention, bad consequences. You tell me if it ever equaled out in the end."

It hadn't.

Of course it hadn't.

Two billion people had died in the first war.

Many of them preventable.

Like her father.

But that hadn't been the point.

It was about _us_ , not _them_.

It was about the reflection.

 _The mirror-effect._

About the way we treated them and how it stood as a metaphor for how we treated the weakest of ourselves.

"But-"

The switch surprised her.

"I wasn't lying when I told you why I was there. War was war. And if I was trying to recapture some part of that, that's my own business. But that place was-" he shook his head. Keying in the code for the door and gesturing for her to go first. Scanning the front lawn for a long moment before following her inside. "It wasn't war, it wasn't even slaughter. It was mockery. And it only got worse when the truth came out."

The freshness of the recycled air was soothing. But much like the Rezort had been, it was fake. Masking the ugly truth that was going on behind reinforced concrete and the latest human ingenuity had to offer.

"So no, she wasn't wrong," he muttered, re-loading his rifle quickly before setting it aside and inspecting both of their Glocks. "Misguided as she was, in a weird way we all owe her something."

She crossed her arms over her chest. Shivering a little.

"A second chance to save ourselves," she hummed. Leaning over so their shoulders could brush. Watching him watch her as the world around them narrowed down like they were caught in the cross-hairs. Vibrant and bright with the all possibilities lurking behind what wasn't being said.

The silence this time was companionable rather than damning.

Progress, she decided.

* * *

When it came, the blast wave shook the house like an earthquake. Waking her from a dead sleep with a frightened scream. But unlike the first time, or even the second time she'd survived a Brimstone protocol, she was only alone for a moment. Because before she could fall, before she could shudder off the bed and join the breaking glass and crumbling drywall, he was there. Bursting into the room and wrapping around her in every possible way. Tumbling into the sheets as he covered her with himself, everything he had, spine curving. Inadvertently ensuring that everything in her life suddenly came beautifully full circle.

It felt like what the people in her therapy group had described with smiles on their faces before they stopped coming to the weekly meetings. Because even then, caught up in that awful plunge of shot-nerves and building fear as he pressed her name into her hair - she felt the farthest thing from alone.

* * *

They watched it together.

Staring without really comprehending as the mushroom cloud domed and spread through the shattered window. And just like the first time, they saw it before they felt it. Tensing before the sound reached them. Already moving, flinching, _scrambling_ before the roof concaved into the kitchen and Archer pulled her underneath the metal desk in the corner. One hand slipping under her shirt as he dragged her across the hardwood. Rough hands palming at the curl of her - ribs creaking like warning signs - before he yanked her underneath just in time for the rest of the windows to shatter from the shockwave.

And just like she had before, she wondered how such a terrible thing could actually be considered a good sign. Considering it meant that least there was someone left alive to make the call.

* * *

Three days later cheers sounded in the distance. They took turns peering through the binoculars at the celebrating crowds that passed the gates. A flowing migration of refugees and survivors heading towards one of the safe zones and displacement camps. Revelry marred only by the occasional gunshot or scream as people picked off the surviving dead as they went.

Still, Archer didn't open the gates and she didn't ask. She knew better. Instead she listened to him talk on a satellite phone to god knows who. Trading information, checking on his businesses, properties and people. Even organizing repairs on the house as soon as the roads were clear.

Because, yes- apparently, he owned a construction company too.

Leaving her to wonder, as she watched him juggle calls effortlessly while still standing watch on the mostly undestroyed section of the kitchen porch. What happened now as they waited for the world to restart.

Two days later, the news spluttered back on the air. Showing different anchors that stuttered through their opening remarks and stared at the studio beyond the camera with skittish eyes.

Humanity had won.

For now.

* * *

The night was quiet, almost eerily so, when she slipped out of bed. Curling her toes across the dusty hardwood before letting the sheet flutter to the floor like an errant ghost.  
 _  
Who was she now?_

The shadows that ran down the hall didn't faze her as she angled left. Skimming her fingers down the cool strip of beaten copper that'd been flattened into the coal grey walls. Instead, she felt bold as she conquered every dark corner. Every footstep that brought her closer to the room at the split-neck of the hall.

 _Who did she want to be?_

She'd been remade three times in her life and only two of them had been her choice. The first time around that change had been forced. Murdered. Replaced. The girl had died to become the woman. The mature, trembling thing that'd existed after the war. The one with prescription bottles half full of chalky little pills and clutched her purse in her lap every time she sat down for group therapy.

She paused at the threshold. Resting her hand against the door to his room. Acknowledging it for what it was. A sign post. Something that was going to be her choice and maybe even his. Because regardless of what happened after this, it _would_ be their choice. It had to be.

The island had changed her again, in the beginning it felt like the first time. Forced. But it turned into something more. Deeper and self-connected. It'd been a personal evolution and a rediscovery of herself all at the same time. Realizing that it wasn't her that needed fixing. Realizing that she could be strong. No, she _was_ strong. _She'd always been strong._ The only thing was she was a different kind of strong. She wasn't strong in the ways Archer was strong - or even Lewis. She was her father's daughter, but she found a way to survive with her heart intact.

And now she was changing again.

And so was he.

She pushed open the door.

* * *

The glint of his eyes glowed in the low-light as she knuckled the door shut behind her. Getting a strange thrill in knowing he was awake and watching her from the soft of the sheets. One leg bare and tangled in coal-black linen as she caught his throat working through an obvious swallow.

"Melanie?"

Her heart was in her throat, heavy with elation when he gripped her hips as she sat astride him. Feeling the firm of his cock fattening against her thigh as he shifted. Not once looking away from her face as she shook her hair free of its clip and let it drop behind her.

"I'm here," she murmured. Letting the words come naturally rather than being concerned with what they were or how they sounded. Enjoying the twitching play of his muscles underneath her as she brushed her hand down his bare chest. Nails flirting with the seam of the sheet, slowly easing it down. Not understanding how hungry she was for it until her fingers started raking gentle furrows between the trail of dark brown hair, soft muscle and star-studded skin that made up his front.

The one thing she would remember later is how he didn't seem surprised. Reverent. Wanting. Maybe even slightly disbelieving, but not surprised. Like the predator in him had sensed the possibility days ago. No, maybe weeks ago.

"You sure this is what you want?" he rasped. Voice like that moment before the fall when her feet left the cliff edge. Hitting open air like she'd been meant to fly all along.

Not quite stopping her as she leaned back and canted her hips - just to feel him. Seeming to give himself permission to rake his fingers down the long, butter-soft t-shirt he'd given her to wear that first night. The one that was three sizes to big, billowy to her knees and smelled like him. She leaned into it shamelessly before answering. Enjoying the rough catch as his callouses rasped like a subtle pause when his hands flirted with the jut of her hips.

She nodded in response. High on something that could just be the future as he looked up at her. Body following hers almost instinctively. Knees threatening to rise like he wanted to keep her there as she rocked back and forth. Letting him feel her. Damp and warm against the fat of his cock.

 _Choices._

Actions.

They were the things that made the difference.

That had the power to cull the dark, dangerous bird called fear from its nest in their chests.

She tipped her head back. Craning her neck towards the window to watch the clouds move in grey-blue bans across the sallow light of the moon. Heavy with rain and probably little to do with empty promises.

Change was in the air again.

Change for her.

Change for him.

Change for the entire world, if they let it.

The world needed to take a good hard look at itself and how it treated the people that relied its goodwill the most. Hope4U was just one example of many of what people - what corporations - were wiling to do to make money. She'd told the reporters that somewhere along the way people had lost themselves. And it wasn't because of the war or the dead- that had just exasperated things. No, this had been happening before all that. The Rezort was just the latest face it presented to the world with bared teeth instead of a smile.

But for them, it was time to take a chance on something _other_ than just surviving.

Something _better_ than just getting by.

"Yes," she murmured back, finally answering his question. Resting her hands on top of his as she placed them firmly on her hips. Reminding him that he was welcome. That she wanted this. _Him._ "And you?"

His face was earth, fire and rain all at once. Every part of him easing to a sudden, eclipsing pause as they breathed together. Letting the moment sink in slowly. Like for the first time - with one simple little question - she'd actually managed to surprise him.

But the pause didn't last for long.

Because he answered with her a kiss. Lunging up to meet her as he sent her tumbling back into the sheets. Caught awkwardly between his legs until he followed her. A solid, dependable weight pressing _downdowndown_ as she let her teeth graze his ear. Laughing at the honesty.

Hope was contagious that way.

He grunted - exhaling fettered and surprised - when she closed her hand around his cock. Squeezing him again just to hear the sound as his hips stuttered into hers. Delighted when the sound turned into a groan. Feeling his pulse against her skin as he shifted his weight to his shoulders and let her guide him into her.

He was a blunt, impossible pressure for a handful of beats before-

Her nails dug into his back, toes curling and alive as he buried his free hand under her head – tangling with her hair. Following her lead when she rocked up with her hips. She bit at the inside of her lips as he stretched her. Rhythm set and edging towards fast as they picked up on each others urgency. Realizing it was _her_ crying out when he pulled out almost completely before surging back in again. Making her flush pink as the sound of her own wet reached her.

 _God._

Archer actually cursed.

Like it was too much.

 _Too good._

They'd only just started, and-

She didn't understand what he was doing until he'd wormed a hand between them and rolled his thumb across her center. Making her cry out. Peaking bright and loud for a future she knew she was more than ready for. Realizing in the aftermath that it was the first time she'd truly seen him smile as he twitched, over-stimulated and sated, in a heap on top of her.

 _The dead deserved to rest._

 _The living deserved to live._

* * *

 **A/N:** This story is now complete. Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think.


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